


Help

by pridecookies



Series: (femHawke x Anders One Shots) The Healer Has the Bloodiest Hands. [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:54:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27551884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pridecookies/pseuds/pridecookies
Summary: Sarah Hawke faces the reality of her mother's death.
Relationships: Anders/Female Hawke, Anders/Hawke (Dragon Age), Anders/Justice (Dragon Age)
Series: (femHawke x Anders One Shots) The Healer Has the Bloodiest Hands. [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1943800
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Help

Sarah Hawke stared into the looking glass, her reflection foreign and yet familiar. Skinny, pale, her lips cracked and her gaze lazy, there were circles of blue and purple under weighty eyes. There was a thickness in the air that hung on her, latched onto her, a cloak of grief she could not shake off. She wanted to peel off her skin and lay there in the dark with just her bones, free of the pressure of it. She ran a hand through her hand and felt pieces fall as she did so. Sarah looked down at her hands, the clumps more prevalent now. Pieces of dark hair had begun to fall out after they found Leandra. Her body was breaking, it was horrifyingly mimicking her spirit. Sarah leaned into the table in front of the glass, getting so close to her reflection that she could see her breath on its face. Every little wrinkle, every bit of her, it all looked so worn and faded. She was so tired. 

There were shears in the table drawer and she pulled them out, looking over them, back at her reflection, back at the shears. With a shuddering breath, she lifted them up to a section of her hair. It was dark and chaotic like her father’s was. He used to call her his wild thing. Little Sarah, little wild thing. Her mother would laugh, kiss her on the top of her head, tell her to come inside for dinner before it got cold.

They were all gone now.

Sarah took a shaking hand and snipped off a section of her hair. It fell to the floor, cascading against the air like feathers in the breeze. She cut another section. Then another. Then another. She was frantically chopping at sections of her hair, without strategy or reference, just uncontained movement. As she did so, she started to cry out. With every cut and every satisfying snip of the sheers, she hacked away at memory. 

_ Anders. _

Snip.

_ Ella. _

Snip.

_ Her father. _

Snip.

_ Bethany. _

Snip.

_ Carver. _

Snip.

_ Her… mother.  _

Snip.

_ Oh, Maker.  _

Snip.

_ Her mother. _

Snip.

_ Please, no. _

Snip.

_ Her mother. _

Sarah couldn’t recall the last kind thing she said to Leandra. It would not have been recently, they argued about the rebellion, about Bethany, about the Amells. But Leandra loved her and she loved Leandra. Sarah began to sob, her body doubling over with every cut. 

_ Maker, please. Oh, no. _

Memories pooled in her mind of the last time she saw her mother and Sarah’s sobbing turned to gagging. The monstrosity, the unholy blend of flesh and limb. She was going to vomit. She doubled over, the shears falling to the floor, and making a metallic clang. Choking on nothing but air, she started to shake. 

“Sarah?” she heard a voice down the hall. “Sarah, what’s wrong?” Closer now. Anders walked in, his expression riddled with worry. He saw her on the ground and was so quickly at her side that it was almost arcane in nature. “Maker, what did you do? Look at me, Sarah. Sarah, look at me,” he commanded, pulling her up and holding her head in his hands. He looked at the shears and her face, stained with tears. Her hair was a mess, chunks were missing. Her eyes were so heavy-lidded it almost looked like she was going to pass out. 

“I’m sorry I’m not pretty anymore,” she murmured, an empty, dark croak of a laugh escaping her lips. She started to wobble over and Anders wrapped his arms around her, pulling her now fragile frame into his lap. She pulled her knees to her chest and settled there, letting him hold her like a child, limply clutching at his hands. A cry rippled through her chest, spilling out of her like a violent storm. It was animalistic, grief manifesting in sound. He wrapped his arms tighter around her, rocking back and forth, doing his best to calm her as she sobbed. 

“I  _ can't _ ... I-I don’t--” she cried, her throat thick. 

“I know, love,” he whispered, “You don’t have to.”

_ “I can’t--” _

“It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

“Help m-me. Please.  _ Help me _ . It h-hurts.”

“I’m here.”

“ _ Help me.” _

“There are some things I can’t heal,” Anders murmured, his own eyes filled with tears, clutching her closer than he ever had, hurting her. She didn’t care. It reminded her that she was still alive, she had not yet been swallowed into her grief, despair had not yet taken her entirely. They sat like that for several minutes. Sarah sobbing into his chest, Anders rocking her back and forth and calming her as best he could, their foreheads pressed tightly together, leaving marks on their skin. After she had started to calm, her body began to slip into pliability. 

“Anders,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. 

“You’re alright.”

Sarah placed a cold, pale hand on his face, her expression pained. 

“Don’t… go..”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Stay. With me. Stay.”

“I’m here.”

“Don’t… Don’t let him take you from me,” she mumbled, sinking deep into his arms as she became weaker, “I can’t… lose you. It would kill me to lose you.”

Anders’ breath caught in his throat and there was an ache in his chest with increasing intensity in every moment she looked at him like that. 

“Isn’t that my line,” he joked but it was empty. Sarah slumped against him, clutching at his collar with desperation. 

“Don’t let him--”

“I promise,” he stopped her, “I won’t let him drown you out. I promise.”

Sarah looked up at him, with a kind of an empty smirk, barely visible unless you knew her well. It was an attempt to smile, waging war against her heartache. 

“Liar.”

He kissed the top of her head and looked at her hair. It was truly chaotic, but not unsalvageable. It could be made more even, cut short. 

“Come on,” he coaxed, “Let me help you clean this up.”

“I look terrible,” she murmured. 

“No, you don’t,” he said, “You will always look like freedom to me.”


End file.
